Here With Me
by Erena G.T. Rose
Summary: DH Spoilers! George centric. What's it like to continue on without your other half? The one you knew as well as yourself. How to go on? Alone now, in his flat, George wonders if he has to...or if he's really alone at all. Dedicated to Karina.


"**Here With Me"**

_(This one-shot is dedicated to KZ, Karina Zarina. A good friend, fellow HP fan and mourner of the late, great Fred Weasley. R.I.P, Fred. This fanfiction is a little angsty, then a little happy and contains spoilers for Deathly Hallows. It's written completely __for__ Karina, to brighten her gloominess. For you, KZ. Enjoy.)_

_(P.S.- This fanfic is best read when listening to "Here With Me" by: Dido. That's what I was listening to.)_

((oo))

And so the Boy-Who-Lived won…again. He _lived_ again. Brilliant; bloody brilliant. George Weasley couldn't have been more ecstatic.

Well…he could have. But there was a hole here that he was trying to fill in—and it had nothing at all to do with his missing ear. The joke—internal and over-used by now—fell like a stagnant air over him, noxious and poison. The cracks about his lost appendage weren't funny anymore. Now, there was no-one to laugh and assure him it only made them easier to tell apart.

No, those jokes would never be funny again.

In the silence following the fall of the Dark Lord, George had closed down the shop for a week or so, even knowing that it would be a wonderful chance to sell fireworks and wheezes to jubilant celebrators.

George wasn't feeling quite so jubilant.

What was there to feel anymore, anyway? Seated on his bed in the loft above the shop, he glanced to his left, eyes unerringly finding the carved letter "F" on the headboard above the matching bed, painted in Gryffindor scarlet. The bed-clothes were pulled taunt and perfectly even on all four ends—he knew because he was meticulous about their state and checked daily to make sure they stayed that way. The pillows, all three of them, were fluffed and arranged just the way his twin had liked them to be.

It was almost as if Fred had gotten up that morning, gone downstairs and walked out in Diagon Alley with some errands to run. He didn't leave George a note, of course—because when were the two of them ever separated? Really? If Fred was just out in the Alley, why wasn't George with him?

If only that were the case.

Fred was not in Diagon Alley—he was never coming back. The bed was made and kept that way; every personal item that Fred had ever held dear was exactly where he'd left it. The Gryffindor posters, a box of their original Puking Pasties and even an old photo album of their last few summers at the Burrow. There was a Muggle camera and a few still-frame pictures that George had never really liked, but now cherished.

An old journal, a record that Fred had kept as George had kept his own, lay on his personal desk, pushed to side as if just waiting to be written in.

The story was over and George knew it. There would never be another page of Fred's tight, scrawling script between those covers.

Where was there to go from here?

George looked at his brother's night-table, eyes tracing over the red-rose he left in a simple vase every few weeks; charmed to live longer with just water and light, this one was blooming nicely—beautifully. Fred had loved roses, loved their scent and their heedy, intoxicating mystery.

And now…George loved roses because Fred once had as well.

On his own night-table there was only his journal and a framed photo, moving and shifting. Inside the tiny, golden frame, Fred and George were there, young and fresh from escaping an Umbridge-controlled Hogwarts, standing on the edge of a sheer cliff in the Scottish highlands, over looking the setting sun sinking into the diamond-tipped waves of the sea. They were waving, smiling at one another and pressing their forehead together.

George periodically turned the frame away because the scene brought tears to his eyes.

He knew he looked like Hell—and what would Fred say…

"_Stupid, sodding git. Quite wallowing in the guilt and whining; ya need get moving! You've got a shop t'be runnin'."_

Yea, that sounded about right. He threw himself back down onto his bed, amidst the wrinkled sheets that he hadn't washed in a few days. His hair was mussed and longish, his chin spotted in that same thin, golden stumble that he and Fred once considered their final step to manhood. Now, he didn't want to see it. To be reminded that he would grow to "manhood" and Fred never would.

"_I'm twice the man you are and ya know it. Now get outta bed."_

Even dead and gone, Fred still managed to boss him around, didn't he? But George didn't want to move. He just wanted to lie there, alone and sleep—to take one of those daydream potions they stocked up on just before the attack on Hogwarts and to dream of him and Fred, together again and living as if nothing had happened.

"_Keep your neb out of the potions, George—ya getting a bit too cozy with 'em if you know what I mean."_

He was hooked. The potions allowed him to see Fred again, as he was before—and not as he was now. A rotting piles of bones in the beautifully wrought marble mausoleum he had purchased with some of their profits and the last of Harry's donated gold. Fred, young, beautiful—alive.

Where were those potions anyway?

"_Are ya daft? Quit with that sodding stupidity before I takes the switch to you!"_

George blinked up at the roof, "I never realized you sounded so much like Mum, Fred." He waited for an answer.

A sigh, across the room. _"Don't be ridiculous, I'm nothing like Mum._" A grumble that sounded like _"I'M not the Mumma's Boy"_ but which George ignored. There was a strange fluttering in his stomach.

He caught sight of himself in the vanity across the way and balked, momentarily disturbed. There were bags under his eyes and his lips were cracked, dried out. His skin looked pale and unhealthy…he needed a good shower and a toothbrush.

"I look like living hell."

"_Naw? Ya think?"_

"Shuddup."

When no reply was forthcoming, George stumbled to the bathroom and then into the bath itself, turning the water on so hot that it scorched his skin when he walked it. The steam curled into his nostrils and the heat made him feel light-headed. He actually sat down on the floor of the basin for a moment and put his head down under the spray of the shower-head, letting the water clear his head.

Logically, he reflected, he _knew_ that Fred was gone—he'd seen the body himself, the imprint of his last smile still stretching across his lips. His wide eyes, so much like his own, staring sightlessly but unafraid. Pale, flawless skin, sprinkled with a smattering of freckles that were nearly invincible to the naked eye. All of it so familiar—all of it gone forever.

"Are you still there?"

"_Where else would I be?"_

"Ah, right then." George raised his chin a little and the water pushed his hair down around his face, like a sopping, wet canopy.

"I'm going 'round the twist—finally."

"_Who told ya that?"_

George didn't answer and Fred didn't push. Of course _he _didn't push—because there was not really a _he_! George knew—realistically—that he was projecting; imagining Fred's voice and words to keep himself from crossing the line of inevitable acceptance.

But he wasn't sure that he could bring himself to let go.

After all, they were going to run out of day-dream potions eventually.

And then what?

He stood on shaking legs, silent all the while as he finished his bath, scrubbing his skin raw with the cleansing pads and then soaping himself with Fred's favorite herbal stuff. A small smile stretched across his lips as he made an inward pledge to never run out of _that_, if only because Fred cherished it so much.

"_Damn right—and don't be wasting it all, you cheat!"_

Rolling his eyes, George stepped out of the bath, wrapped in towel. His skin was fresh-looking, pink and scrubbed. His eyes were wide open for the first time in days and his hair was clean, hanging around his face in wet locks that clung to his nape, ears and chin lovingly. He shaved in the shower and was once again without facial-hair.

He would never grow it out and that was a promise.

"_Good, ya looked ridiculous."_

A good ten minutes later and a whole half-tube of tooth-paste wasted, George felt fresher, more alive. His heart was still heavy, of course—the knowledge of his brother's death and the impact it was having on him less potent but still horrible all the same.

"_Glad to know you're not to be rid of me so quickly."_

George blinked as he dressed, "I will never be rid of you!" He was pulling on his office robes, glaring at the floor-boards, "That was a daft thing to even suggest!"

"_So you're not off to find ya-self another partner, then?"_

Pausing on his way out the bedroom door, George leaned his forehead against the door-frame. "Fred Weasley, you are my one and only twin—my only partner. You're irreplaceable, unforgettable and undeniably the best friend I've ever had. My heart and soul, brother. No one can step into those shoes, mate."

There was silence but George felt that Fred would be pleased by his response, even if it was just a voice in his own mind. After all, Fred was George and George was Fred. Everybody knew that, right?

Shaking his head, the red-head headed down the stairs to the shop. "I'm definitely losing my marbles."

"_I'm sure we've got a fresh stock downstairs, somewhere."_

With a snort, George entered the darkened shop, lit the magicked lamps and surveyed the surroundings. There was a thin, almost indiscernible layer of dust on everything but that was cleared away with a flick of the wan and then it was all back to new again.

Walking into the "office" area, he found two scarlet and gold over-robes hanging on a rack—one embroidered with a giant "G" and the other with an "F".

Tears threatened to overflow as he reached for his own and slipped it on.

Only on the way out of the room did he pause and look back at the other robe. It hung there, unused and unmoved; with a groan at his own mounting insanity, George swept back, grabbed the thing and took it with him into the shop-proper again. He draped it, human-like, in one of the chairs behind the low counter. It was almost—_but definitely not completely_—like having Fred standing right there beside him.

((oo))

Nearly two years after that, the shop was booming. George had hired two more underlings to manage the floor while he worked the office and all that done with Fred's approval.

George found the more he tried to deny the realism of the voice that was supposed to be Fred, the more it persisted in talking to him. He thought he'd read somewhere in a Muggle book about psychology that post-traumatic stress did strange things to people, but…

…at this point he was beyond caring.

As long as he didn't tell anyone about Fred, he saw no reason to try and make him go away.

He was in the office now, reading over the stock lists. He was wearing the over-robe, the "G" clearly visible over the breast. The matching counter-part was draped in the chair neck to him, almost as if it were a body devoid of bones and form.

Squinting at the a row of numbers, George rubbed the bridge of his nose. Where were his… "Where are my glasses?" He glanced around, at a loss, trying to remember when he last had them on.

"_Try the right hand draw, my desk."_

He did…and there they were. "Now, I wonder how that happened." He injected all the sarcasm possible into his voice and rolled his eyes when Fred said something like, _"Ungrateful"_.

George put the glass on and was just looking back down at the ledger when a knock sounded on the door and a blonde head, that of his underling Mildred, popped in.

"Harry Potter is here to see you, Sir. Says it's good news—about Ginevra."

George looked up from the books, eyebrows raising, "Ginny? Is she with him?"

Mildred shook her head, "No, sir."

He nodded, "Tell him I'll be there in a moment." He watched his underling disappear out the door and then sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and removing his glasses to put them aside for later.

"_Betcha she's pregnant."_

George gasped, eyes flying open, "What? The sodding git better not have put his filthy hands on our little sister or I'm going to have to rip them off, Hero Of the Wizarding World or not!"

"_They're married, Gred; you can't do a thing."_

"Since when do I take your advice, _Forge_?" He drawled the nickname and then rolled his eyes as he rose from his chair.

Fred gave an exasperated laugh, _"How about every single day? You'd never make it anywhere without me."_

George looked over his shoulder, two steps from the door, and eyed the robe with the giant "F" on it. It was true that he kept it with him most days, if only because it reminded him of Fred. But it was also true that he listened to "Fred", the voice, more often than not.

He also knew that if he told anyone, they'd think he was insane. The dead don't come back, right?

He might be insane—'round the twist a dozen times or more—but the truth remained that he felt more at peace with what he had left of Fred—the robe, photos and this voice in his mind. If that made him a nutter, than so be it.

After all, who's to say that from beyond the grave, his beloved brother wasn't reaching out with the last ace up his sleeve? Trying to drive him mental? Or just keep him company until it was his turn to cross? They always were inseparable. Why should death change that?

Stranger things had happened.

"_Ya got that right. Now, let's go. If Harry's gone and gotten Ginevra pregnant, we're skipping that bloody soap opera you're so fond of—for the next __two__ weeks!"_

"Fine, fine. But if she's not then you're going to be suffering through a marathon of it for the rest of the evening."

"_Yea, yea…now get on with it!"_

With a smile on his face, George opened the door and stepped out into the shop.

Stranger things _definitely_ happened.

**The End.**

* * *

_**(Author's Note: So, how did you like it? I wrote this for Karina Zarina (Dislocated Me on Deviant Art.) This is because she is awesome and because we both loved Fred Weasley. **_

_**So how did I do people? Review, please! Let me know.**_

_**-erena g.t. rose **_


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